The first thing I feel when I wake is the wrongness.
Not pain. Not fever. Not the bone-deep ache of the bond screaming in my marrow. No, it’s something subtler, deeper—a quiet, insistent dissonance, like a note played out of tune in the silence of my mind. My body feels heavy, languid, as if I’ve been drugged. My skin is warm, too warm, flushed with a heat that lingers long after sleep. And beneath it all, a low, pulsing thrum—familiar, but not mine. The bond. His bond. Still humming beneath my skin, still tethering me to him, still whispering mine, mine, mine with every beat of my heart.
But I’m not in my room.
I’m in his.
The realization hits me like a blade to the gut. I bolt upright, the black silk sheets sliding down my bare torso, revealing smooth, unmarked skin. I’m still in the thin silk underclothes from last night—what’s left of them. The top is torn at the shoulder, the fabric clinging loosely, exposing the curve of my breast. My hands fly to my throat, my neck, my wrists—no new marks. No bruises. No blood. Just the lingering warmth of his touch, the ghost of his mouth, the echo of his voice in the dark.
And his scent.
Gods, his scent.
It’s everywhere. On the sheets. On my skin. In my hair. Storm and cedar, power and something darker, something primal. It clings to me like a second skin, deeper than perfume, deeper than memory. It’s in my lungs. In my blood. In the very core of me.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the rapid flutter of my pulse. The Mark of Twin Thrones flares faintly on my palm—still there, still burning, still binding me to him. But the rest… the rest is a blank.
I don’t remember how I got here.
I don’t remember anything after locking my door last night. After collapsing to the floor, after the tears, after the endless loop of his kiss, his blood, his hands—after swearing I’d never let him touch me again.
And yet.
Here I am.
In his bed.
Alone.
The fire in the hearth burns low, casting long shadows across the obsidian walls. The room is silent, the air still. No sign of him. No note. No message. Just the lingering warmth of his body on the sheets beside me, the faint indentation of his head on the pillow.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. My body aches—not from injury, not from struggle—but from something else. Something deeper. A hollow, unfulfilled need, coiled low in my belly, pulsing with every breath. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, not in warning, not in rage—but in recognition. Mate, it whispers. King. Ours.
I clamp down on it, teeth grinding. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I didn’t come to him. I didn’t beg for him. I didn’t—
Then I see it.
On the nightstand.
A single, folded piece of parchment. My name written in his hand—sharp, precise, inky black.
My breath catches.
I reach for it, fingers trembling. The paper is warm, as if it’s been held too long. I unfold it slowly, my eyes scanning the words.
Zara,
You came to me in the night. You didn’t speak. You didn’t fight. You just climbed into bed, pressed your back to my chest, and whispered, “Stay with me.”
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t question it. I just held you.
And you slept. Deeply. Peacefully. For the first time since we met.
I didn’t touch you. Not like that. Not beyond holding you. I know what you’re afraid of. I know what you think I am.
But I’m not him. Not anymore.
Breakfast is in the solar. The Council meets at noon. Don’t be late.
R.
My hands shake.
I came to him?
I whispered that?
No. It’s impossible. I would never—
But the evidence is all around me. The warmth of the sheets. The scent on my skin. The ache in my body. The quiet, insistent hum of the bond, no longer screaming in conflict, but settled. Calm. Satisfied.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to piece it together. Did I sleepwalk? Was I still feverish? Was the bond pulling me, dragging me to him like a moth to flame?
Or did I want to go?
The thought coils in my gut, sharp and unwelcome. I came here to destroy him. To expose him. To avenge my mother. And instead, I’m waking up in his bed, aching for his touch, haunted by the memory of his kiss.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Betrayal.
I push back the sheets and stand, my legs unsteady. I need air. I need space. I need to think. But the palace is his. The city is his. The bond is his. There’s no escaping him, not truly.
I cross the room to the wardrobe, yanking open the doors. Inside are dresses—dozens of them—silk, velvet, lace, all in shades of midnight and storm. All designed to please him. I grab the darkest one and pull it on, ignoring the way the fabric clings to my curves, the slit that runs up to my hip. I don’t care how I look. I don’t care what he thinks.
But I do.
And that’s the problem.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—pale skin, dark eyes, lips still slightly swollen from his kiss. My hair is a mess, tangled from sleep, but there’s a flush to my cheeks, a softness to my expression I don’t recognize. I look… claimed.
I hate it.
I hate him.
I turn away and walk out the door, my boots echoing on the marble. The corridors are silent, the torches flickering. The palace is waking—servants bowing as I pass, nobles pausing to watch, their eyes sharp with curiosity. I feel their gazes like needles in my skin. They’re waiting for me to fail. Waiting for me to slip. Waiting for the Wildblood to fall.
But I won’t.
The solar is a sunlit chamber with glass walls that overlook the city. A table is set for two—crystal goblets, silver platters, fruit I don’t recognize, bread that smells like honey and ash. He’s already there, seated at the head of the table, dressed in black armor edged with silver thorns, his hair slightly damp, like he’s just bathed. His storm-lit eyes lift as I enter, scanning me from head to toe.
“You’re up,” he says, voice low.
“You could’ve woken me,” I snap, taking the seat across from him.
“I could’ve,” he agrees. “But you were sleeping. Peacefully. For once.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity,” he says, pouring wine—dark, smoky, laced with magic. “It’s protocol. My consort doesn’t eat alone.”
“I’m not your consort.”
“You signed the contract,” he reminds me, eyes glinting. “For thirty days, you are. And unless you want the Council questioning your commitment, you’ll play the part.”
I glare at him. “And what if I don’t care?”
“Then you’ll die,” he says simply. “And I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”
My stomach twists.
Not from fear.
From jealousy.
I hate myself for it.
“Fine,” I snap. “Breakfast. Then the archives.”
“The archives aren’t open yet,” he says. “They won’t be for another hour. Until then, you’re mine.”
“You don’t own me.”
“The bond says otherwise,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But if you’d like a reminder…”
He reaches out, not to touch my face, not to grip my arm—but to brush his fingers along the inside of my wrist, just above the pulse point.
The contact is light.
But the effect is devastating.
Heat surges through me, sharp and sudden. My breath catches. My skin burns where he touches me. The bond on my palm flares, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
And for a single, traitorous second—
I forget my mother’s face.
I forget my mission.
I forget everything except the feel of his skin on mine.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
His thumb strokes my wrist, slow, deliberate. “You feel it,” he murmurs. “The bond. The pull. The need.”
I yank my arm back. “I feel nothing.”
“Liar,” he says, but there’s no bite to it this time. Just… amusement. “Eat. Then we’ll go to the archives.”
I force myself to eat, to keep my hands steady, to not look at him. But I can feel his gaze—hot, heavy, knowing. He sees every flicker of my pulse, every hitch in my breath, every time my wolf stirs beneath my skin.
And he likes it.
When breakfast ends, he rises. “Come. I’ll take you to the archives.”
I follow him through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors, until we reach the massive iron gate etched with glowing sigils. The archivist stands at the entrance, eyes wary.
“High King,” he says, bowing. “And… Consort.”
Riven nods. “She has clearance. Full access to public records. No sealed war councils. No private correspondence.”
The archivist hesitates. “Even the Blood War files?”
“Even those.”
My breath catches.
“Thank you,” I say, voice steady.
Riven turns to me. “One hour. Then I expect you at the morning council.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then the bond will remind you,” he says, stepping close. His hand brushes my lower back—just a whisper of contact—but it sends heat spiraling through me. “Painfully.”
Then he’s gone.
I turn to the archivist. “Take me to the Wildblood records.”
He leads me through towering shelves of ancient tomes, their spines glowing faintly with sealed magic. The air is thick with dust and power. My heart hammers.
Finally, he stops in front of the narrow cabinet—the one I opened last night. The lock is closed, but not sealed. As if someone left it that way. On purpose.
“This is it,” he says. “But it’s still sealed. Only the High King can open it.”
My stomach drops.
But then—
—I see it.
Inside the cabinet, just visible through the glass—
A single, silver-bound grimoire.
Its spine is etched with runes I don’t recognize, but the title is clear, written in Old Fae: Wildblood Restoration Ritual.
My breath stops.
Why would Riven have a book on restoring the Wildbloods?
Why would the man who signed their execution order keep a ritual to bring them back?
Unless…
Unless he didn’t sign it.
Unless he’s been trying to fix what was done.
Unless he’s been waiting for me.
I press my palm to the glass, my heart hammering. This changes everything. This is proof—not just of his innocence, but of his intent. His desire to make it right.
But I can’t touch it. Not yet.
Because behind me, a voice cuts through the silence.
“I told you some truths are better left buried.”
I turn.
Riven stands in the doorway, his storm-lit eyes dark, his expression unreadable.
And I know—
—this changes everything.